


MUDBOY

by grandson



Category: 19天 - Old先 | 19 Days - Old Xian
Genre: (I think?), Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Dreams and Nightmares, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Beta Read, Not Really Character Death, Three Years Later, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandson/pseuds/grandson
Summary: he’s eighteen now, hair grown out, another piercing on his ear  — with a well-paying job, and zhengxi is helping him with his college applications, he’s even going to move out, soon. he’s okay. life is okay.(so why the hell can’t he move on?)or rather, eighteen year-old mo guan shan’s life, in bits and pieces
Relationships: He Tian/Mo Guanshan (19 Days), Mo Guan Shan & Buzzcut (19 Days), Mo Guan Shan & Zhan Zhengxi (19 Days)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 94





	MUDBOY

**Author's Note:**

> heyyy !! PLEASE read this before u continue on w/ the story !!! 
> 
> \- buzzcut / cun tou from mo's gang has been renamed as gu guanyu by me !!! i jus rlly felt the need to give him a proper name because he deserves it, he's an amazing kid   
> \- in section iv, there are non-graphic descriptions of death (strangulation, gunshots, drowning) pls pls pls skip that if that makes u uncomfortable or triggers u

**i. barely a man, still just a kid**

It’s a sticky midnight in summer, and he’s just turned eighteen years-old. He turns onto his side, dragging his dull nails against the wall — teeth aching in his mouth, skin peeling from his lips. Tucked into the corner of his bed, his phone begins to vibrate, and he sighs, clicking it off. He closes his eyes, and lets the unsteady pulse of the amber light-bulb lull him into a state of drowsiness, threadbare sheets kicked off. 

He’s at the edge of sleep — eyelids weighing down, head swimming with murk — but then the door is clicking open, there’s a dip in his mattress, just by his waist. A pair of thin hands wind into his hair, soothing ovals into his temples, scratching at his scalp, and pushing hair from his face — he sighs at the touches, and a kiss is pressed to his cheek. 

“Look at you, baby,” A voice murmurs, “so strong, all grown-up,” a kiss is pressed to his other cheek. 

“But, you’re still my little boy, aren’t you?” _Yes,_ he thinks, but he’s too tired, far too tired, so he doesn’t say a thing, another kiss — this time pressed to the tip of his nose. “My little fighter,” she murmurs, and he lets her brush her lips against his eyelids. It feels — _weird,_ he thinks, being treated as if he were a breakable, rosy-cheeked child. _(But he doesn’t mind, he thinks, doesn’t mind at all)._

“You’re so good,” she mumbles, “such a good person,” she sniffles, and her hands flutter, with her fingertips feel like feather-light kisses. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she breathed out, and he doesn’t understand why she is, “I’m sorry you had to be so strong, for so long,” _oh,_ and, with her head pressed to his chest, “you’re amazing, you know. I don’t deserve you,” and _no,_ he wants to say, _no, you deserve better than me, so much better._

“I love you,” a kiss to the cheek, “happy birthday, baby.”

A pair of fingertips, brushing over his undereyes — the threadbare sheets being pulled back over him, the corners tucked into the sides of the bed — the lightbulb flickering off, the door clicking to a close, and he finally lets himself take a deep breath in — with his heart aching. 

In the morning, he’s greeted by his mother’s smiling face, an orange-chocolate cake on the table, sunflowers on the window-sill, his father’s beef-stew noodles on the stove — and his heart feels achingly full. 

An unfamiliar set of keys, connected by a flimsy, silvery ring sit on the edge of their glass-table, and the keychain attached to them glints at him. He stills, gaping at his mother, wordless  — before twisting around her, sliding open the doors to the balcony, almost tipping himself over the railings and — there it is, gleaming in the dry, morning light, a moped, anticipating him. 

He’s overwhelmed for a moment, and he reaches for his mother, burying his head into the side of her neck. She knows him a bit too well, because she laughs and laughs, rubs his back, and connects the freckles on his shoulders, tells him how much she loves him. And, when he pulls back, she glows in the morning sunlight. 

In the afternoon — Zhan Zhengxi comes over, and slaps him across the head, scolding him for turning off his phone, turns around to greet his mother with a quiet voice and a careful hug — and turns _back_ around to wish _him_ a happy birthday, hugging him with a light grip. 

He eats with them — compliments the food, makes small-talk with his mother about university, and kicks his feet from underneath the table — Mo almost retaliates. _Almost._ But the look his mother gives him stops him short, and he settles his feet back onto the floor with a scowl. 

Xi gets him a new phone-case, a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and a packet of socks — he contemplates throwing the socks at him, but they’re patterned with sandwiches, so he settles back into his seat with a huff. A small mercy. And that _fucker_ — Mo can _feel_ him laughing at him. 

  
A few hours later, he’s weaving through crowds, and reaching for a store with tinted windows, and a sign flashing: Stroke of Luck in blocked, white letters. He shoulders the doors open, and in a beat, he’s swept up into a rib-creaking hug. 

“Bro, I _missed_ you, visit me more often, yeah?” A voice mumbles into his shirt. 

“We graduated two months ago.” Mo rasps out.

He's ignored. “Happy birthday, bro. Wow, you’re kind of old now.” Mo slaps him. 

And he’s finally put down onto his feet — and a familiar buzzed head greets him with a bright smile. _Fuck, so_ _damn tall,_ Mo thinks. 

“But _seriously,_ dude. I missed you, where’ve you been?” He asks, and guilt seeps into the nape of his neck. 

Mercifully, before he can respond, he’s ushered into a thin, leathery stool. And the sight of Guanyu with a pair of latex gloves and a needle _should_ frighten him more than it does, but he just watches him flit around his workspace, leaning back into the mildly uncomfortable seat. 

“Bro — you remember when you mentioned wanting to get an orbital?” He asks, turning around with a smile, and Mo blinks at him, his smile falters — pinching the skin around his ear in a ring, he explains: “You know, the one that sort of looks like a helix?” And Mo’s lips part in recognition, and he smiles again. 

“So, like, I could like, you know, do it for you. _If_ — if that’s cool. If you don’t want to, that’s like, totally fine, we could do something else — _or nothing at all!_ Anything's fine. Totally.” It’s hard to miss the way he glances at the punctures in Mo’s ears, pulling at the ends of his gloves. 

A part of him wants to hit the kid, tell him off — tell him he shouldn’t worry about him, shouldn’t feel so responsible for him. But he can’t bring himself to be angry, today. A bowl of beef-stew noodles sits in his stomach, and he gives the kid a barely-there smile: “Go for it.” He says, finally. 

It’s hard not to laugh at the way Guanyu stares at him — wide-eyed and mouth ajar, before he blinks, stares at him a bit more, shakes his head and asks: “Are you sure, bro?” And when Mo nods, he looks a bit misty-eyed, but Mo doesn’t say a word on it. 

And, he’s gentle — he’s so gentle when he cleans the skin of his ear, and even when a needle is piercing through his skin, it feels a world gentler than that red pushpin with the rough tip. An earring is pushed into his ear, and he admires it slowly in the mirror, the reddened skin of his ear and the steel-gray of the ring. He looks back at Guanyu: “Thanks, man.” 

He’s swept up into another hug, but this time, he doesn’t fight as much. And he doesn’t say anything about the shaky breath released against his shirt, slightly damp with relief. 

  
An hour later, he visits his father. 

It’s cold in the visiting room, and he sits on the other side of the booth — a black, clunky phone raised up to his ear, and his father eyes look gray on the other side of the worn glass, disconnecting them. He smooths his palm against the glass, and Mo stares at the scar on his hand. 

His father is looking at him, really looking at him, and a part of Mo thinks he’s trying to commit every piece of him to memory — to the disheveled hair, bandage wrapped around his finger, the still-red skin of his ear, chipped polish on his nails. 

“You look just like your mother,” He says, finally, and his voice comes out thin through the phone, “I’m so proud of you.” He whispers, and Guanshan laughs a little wetly, pressing his forehead against the glass. He can feel his fingers poke through the punctures in the glass, and he can feel his fathers hands brush against his. 

“I love you,” He says, and Guanshan tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, his father curls his fingers around his — “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” 

  
And when he’s back in his bedroom, he presses his back up against the wall, a blanket around his knees — there are a pair of pure, black studs in the lobes of his ears, complimenting the steel-gray of the ring around the shell of his ear. He sighs, thumbing through the messages in his phone, from friends, coworkers, old classmates. 

With a sigh, he clicks it off, and instead plucks up his worn _‘Very Scientific Zodiac Fortune’_ magazine, thumbing through the pages until a familiar piece of wrinkled, discolored paper slips out. He picks it up from his stomach — staring at it, and at the edges that were falling apart, before unfolding it, careful. 

_‘I don’t want you_  
_to like me more and more,_

_━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━_

_that was a lie.’_

  
He stares at the handwriting, with the l’s higher than the i’s and the o’s curving at the top, messy w’s and shaky a’s. He clutches the edges of the paper, why does middle-school feel like a lifetime ago? 

With a sigh, he leans back — head hitting the wall, and whispers to himself: “Happy birthday, Guanshan,” and the clock hits midnight. 

**ii. grease stains, straining lights**

He has a headache, a blunt throb at his temples, and he scowls, squinting at the floor to try and quell the pain, but it’s useless — the bright lights and background noise doesn’t help. He watches as pairs of shoes pass by him — sneakers, brogues, heels, espadrilles and boots — and looks down at his yellowed sneakers, stitched together at the sole with red thread from where it began to fall apart. He hates the balmy, summer air. 

A bunch of folded bills sat in the pocket of his slacks — which he hadn’t changed out of yet — courtesy of a foreign businessman, suited in an indigo-colored suit. He was a man with graying, blonde hair and smile-lines around his mouth and eyes — and called Guanshan son when he placed his drinks in front of him. 

He heaves out a sigh, and he shakes the cigarette held loosely in-between his fingers, watching the ash fall apart — there was a red mark on his hand, courtesy of sparking oil from the kitchen. Vaseline was smeared across his lips, courtesy of one of his coworkers, it was thick on the chapped skin of his lips. He resisted the urge to wipe it off. 

God, he was so tired. He’s been getting worse, lately — hasn’t been sleeping enough, drinking enough water, eating as much as he should, taking on too many shifts — and probably looks like a wreck. He doesn’t care, though, he’s too tired to care — he can feel the exhaustion everywhere, weighing down his arms and chest. 

A vendor shouts out a price for his baozi, forty-five percent off — and Guanshan tilts his head up, inhaling a mouthful of smoke. He squints at the sky — and not a single star is in sight, black stretching over for miles and miles. And, surrounded by steam, yellow lights, street food, he peered up at the waxy moon — distantly, he wonders if someone else is looking up at it with him. 

He finishes his cigarette, and pulls out another. 

**iii. brothers**

He goes to Zhan Zhengxi’s apartment after his morning shift — bringing over leftovers from the restaurant, braised eggplant and pork, and a small container of fried rice one of the chefs had slid over to him when their manager wasn’t looking. 

Opening the front-door quietly, he toes off his shoes and strains his ears to hear the droning of an old man from Zhengxi’s laptop — who flickers his eyes up to meet his, raising his fingers in a wordless greeting. Guanshan waves, but he’s already gone back to staring at his laptop. 

He sets the bag of food on the counter, moving across his kitchen with little noise, opening the fridge and pulling out a can of soda, rolling it around in his palms. In a quick motion, he puts a few bottles of spices back into their respective cupboards — he’d scold him for being lazy, later. He sets a bottle of water next to Xi, and receives a flicker of his eyes as a quiet thanks. 

After a second of dithering, he settles onto the sofa — mustard yellow, secondhand and worn at the edges, stitched together by staples and thread in a few places. He settles his feet onto the coffee-table and twists the can open, pulling out his phone and leaning against the armrest. Distantly, he registers the sound of Zhengxi laughing, a quiet, barely-there sound — but it still manages to warm Guanshan’s heart, just a bit. 

An unwanted memory worms its way into his mind — sixteen-year-old Xi, with blank eyes, tears streaming down his face, and his face was so neutral — so empty, that it had turned Guanshan’s heart cold. 

He can remember holding Zhengxi’s damp face in his hands, looking into those glacial eyes as he cried — and when he finally spoke: “He’s not coming back, I can feel it. He isn’t — _he’s gone._ He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone…” He whispered, crumbling in Guanshan’s arms. 

It was — tough. Sometimes, he couldn’t even get out of his bed without someone coaxing, and sometimes, forcing. He wouldn’t even eat, some days — and he couldn’t even count on both hands how many Zhengxi’s sister had called him, voice thick, asking him to ‘help, Brother Mo, please help,’ and Guanshan always let her hold his hand at the kitchen-table. 

Guanshan had a feeling that Zhengxi would have been content to be left for dead in his bedroom. He didn’t let that happen, though, refused to let Zhengxi slowly fall apart as the days went on. 

It took — a while. A long while. Of Guanshan helping him shower, doing his homework for him, cleaning his room, cooking for him, and even feeding him, some days. He can remember Zhengxi’s parents, his sister, during that time — so dejected, so unsure of what to do, how to help their beloved son.

He could feel the gratitude whenever he visited their home with Zhengxi, in the way his father hugged him tight, and the way his mother always fretted over him — asking him if he wanted seconds, and the way his sister would bound over to him with a smile, in high-school, but still carrying the excitement of a middle-schooler.

And, he’s never going to say it out loud, but he’s proud of him — he’s already in his first year of university, with his own apartment, and a paid internship about — whatever it is he’s doing.

“Hey,” a hand grasps his shoulder lightly, and he likes up, seeing Zhengxi’s mildly concerned face, “you okay? You were spacing out.” Guanshan waves him off, and he settles onto the couch next to it, tucking a cushion underneath his arm. They switch on a video-game, something with colorful lights and flashy characters. Neither of them say a thing when Guanshan chooses the lean character with dark hair. 

  
**iv. the veins on your eyelids**

And, Mo Guan Shan is no stranger to nightmares — plagued by them since he was a child, dreaming of giant, man-eating monsters and sinister sea-creatures who tried to take his legs. Eventually, they involved into dreams of his father, with his hand torn-open, and those big, scary men with the dark clothing, dragging him away from his father, his mother. 

He dreams of — that old, homeless guy, and his worn hands clasped around his neck, cutting off his air-supply, leaving him for dead on the street, and the sounds of sirens, and his mothers cries. He dreams of his father — with a long, white bedsheet tied around his neck, hanging off of a hanging lightbulb in his prison cell, and he dreams of She Li. His lackeys pinning him down, by his hands, by his feet, and a knife cutting into his skin as he screams, screams, and screams until he was woken up by his mothers shaking, damp hands. 

And, those dreams are fine, he can deal with them — he can forget about that, push aside his mothers shaking hands, and pay no attention to Guanyu’s concerned eyes. He can manage, he can handle them but — 

he can’t handle these.

 _He can’t._ He can’t. Not these.

Mo has always had an imagination a bit too big for his liking, and these dreams, these, these — nightmares are the result of too-many nights without sleep, nights spent wondering, pondering, too much for his own good. He asks questions — too many questions, ones he doesn’t have the answer to — but one always circles back to the center. Is he dead? Is He Tian dead? 

Sometimes, he pictures him — floating aimlessly in the middle of the ocean, with pasty skin, his black hair fanned out on the water beneath him, unmoving — still, for once. He sees an alleyway, and He Tian slumped in-between trash-cans, shirt soaked through with red, a gun held loosely in his hand. And, there was always no one there, no one around for him, and he had to watch He Tian die, alone in his dreams. 

And once, he dreamt he was thirteen again — jogging home, with a blue-tinted binder over his head as he dirtied his white sneakers in puddles. And there he was, the old, homeless guy with the stained, gray coat. Except, except this time — it was He Tian’s throat clasped by a brutish hand, struggling for air, reaching out for Guanshan with trembling, twitching fingers. Fear — fear in his eyes, face going red, but he couldn’t move, _fuck, why couldn’t he MOVE?!_

He knows — he knows he’s being unrealistic, a bit stupid, really. He Tian probably — probably fucked off, and got married to a gorgeous, dark-haired woman with red-tinted lips, or — or maybe he was living inside an estate, too-big for one person, with a servant to bend to his every whim. Or maybe… maybe he had found someone else to annoy. 

~~_But, isn’t that more unrealistic? Would He Tian really? He liked you, you know, maybe even loved—_ ~~

He slams his head against the door. And, god, look at him now, he wonders if He Tian would tease him, fingers running up his sides, asking him if he was worried about him, with that annoying voice of his. 

  
A few nights later, he’s sat at the foot of his bed — his middle-school cell-phone in his hand, and he thumbs through messages from a contact-number that no longer works, covering the profile-picture with his thumb. 

**v. three twenty-six in the morning**

  
It’s late at night, and he’s outside — with his sweater thrown to the side, and a basketball held in the curve of his hand, digging his heels into the asphalt. He shouldn’t be out here, it’s late, and it’s getting colder, but he stamps down the rational side of his brain, and slumps down into a heap against the wall. It’s quiet out here — there’s only the rustling of the trees, somewhere in the distance. 

He’ll go back inside, soon, before his mother wakes up — so she won’t be able to scold him, and the purpling skin underneath his eyes will be blamed on another restless night. He’s worrying her, he knows, but god, he’s so tired, lately. A sigh leaves his lips, and he turns the basketball in his hand, before tucking it into his side. It’s quiet out here, there’s only the rustle of the trees and the distant sounds of the city, somewhere faraway. He runs his tongue over his teeth. 

He looks at it, at everything — the basketball court, and its scuffed asphalt-floor, rusting hoops, torn net fences. At the trees, and the knife-marks dragging down through the bark, the blinking of the vending-machines from in-between them. In the distance, a dog barks, and he sighs, a little wetly.

A part of him aches to be fifteen again, and that surprises him — because Mo, he muscles through everything — every hour, every day, every week, every month, and every year. Why would he need to look back? There was no point. 

But, at the back of his mind, he can hear it — He Tian and Jian Yi, and their loud, raucous laughter. Zhan Zhengxi, and the way he would dissolve — shoving past them to throw the ball, the way he would hit Jian Yi whenever he did something especially idiotic. If he closed his eyes, he could remember Jian Yi’s stained shirt, and the cold water hitting his face when he kicked their bottles up. Jian Yi and his painfully awkward attempts at flirting with Zhan Zhengxi. 

He Tian’s damp breath, and his muscles, shiny with sweat — fingers trying to sneak up his sides, and his razor-edged smile, his too-sharp eyes watching his every move, and his smooth voice would tease, tease, tease. (And Mo would go home, a frown on his face, but feeling a touch too-hot). 

A car passes by, and he lets the basketball roll away. 

**vi. nanjing twelve ladies**

It’s winter, now — and it’s bitterly cold, it bites at him through his badly-made parka. He’s just finished his morning shift — with his skin a bit too-pink from the scalding shower he had just taken. 

He drags his fingernails through his drying hair, letting a few, stray pieces hang over his face. It’s gotten longer. 

It’s too early, and only the elderly and the early-risers are up and about, right now. Above — the sky is a bruise-blue, and a few, sparse, frosty clouds welcome him from the corners of his vision. He clutches at his fingers — a shade too-white and shaking, before stuffing them into his pockets — he really needs to get some gloves. 

He bites the cigarette in-between his teeth.

Fuck — rent is due, soon, and he’s almost run out of groceries, and he hasn’t paid a visit to his mom in a bit. Zhengxi has exams, soon, and he’s going to forget to drink water and fuck, he might’ve forgotten his— 

“Mo Guan Shan.” 

He turns without thinking, and the cigarette nearly slips — with smoke curling out of his mouth, he stares, wide-eyed and still — he thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe, just maybe. He is so, so cold. He shivers, and he thinks he may have started hallucinating. 

It wouldn’t surprise him, he can remember being sixteen, glancing back at every head of full, black hair — and ignoring the twinge of disappointment whenever it wasn’t— 

him. But there he is, in the flesh — a few feet away from him, and when he blinks, he’s right in front of him, tugging out the cigarette from in-between his lips, fingertips brushing against bitten skin. 

A calamity. That’s what he is. A terrible, turbulent calamity — one that had shaken up Mo Guan Shan so much, he hadn’t forgotten it, even when the calm had settled. 

And, god, he is so tired — he doesn’t know what to do, whether he should punch him, hug him, tear out his hair, kiss him— 

“You idiot,” He starts — his voice coming out raw, damp — he looks down at the pavement, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears are curling down his cheeks, hitting the pavement below, “you idiot, you stupid fucking shit,” 

“I thought you were dead,” He croaks, “I thought you were fucking dead, you jerk.” It feels a bit strange to cry, he hasn’t done it in years. He is so, so tired, and so cold, and a hand pushes at his head, and he’s smothered into a warm, warm chest and there’s a hand, running through the short, coarse hairs at the nape of his neck. It feels oddly familiar. 

He Tian hums, and Mo clutches him. 

“Little Mo,” he starts, “did you really think you’d get rid of me that easily?” 

**Author's Note:**

> first work for nineteen days ... hi !!! i hope it's not too bad
> 
> if u liked this, didn't like this, think i could do something better, pls tell me !! i love all comments so much they're literally my fuel to keep writing / i also feel the need to clarify that if some parts dont make sense i am so sorry i wrote this when i was very sleep-deprived and my hands were v shaky and i am Too Lazy to proofread things
> 
> follow me on twitter if u want !! its @/gr4ndk1ds  
> pls take care and be safe <3


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